


Stedfast as Thou Art

by meverri



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: An Author Who Knows Nothing About Knitting But That Isn't Stopping Her, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:47:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21746245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meverri/pseuds/meverri
Summary: Martin knits Jon a sweater.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 9
Kudos: 72
Collections: Rusty Quill Secret Santa 2019





	Stedfast as Thou Art

**Author's Note:**

  * For [abbyleaf101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbyleaf101/gifts).



When he was eleven years old, Martin Blackwood knitted a scarf.

It had been lopsided and lumpy, made of a truly horrible and itchy yarn that, on its first wash, had faded from a bright green to a sort of dirty pale color that didn’t match anything he owned. After four wears, he had shoved it to the back of his closet, only to emerge five years later when he sorted through and donated three boxes of old clothes to the kids down the street. It had been so disappointing that Martin hadn’t touched his grandmother’s old knitting needles again until after he’d left school, until the world had become a lot scarier in the span of only a few months, until he’d been locked in his apartment for a week while Jane Prentiss knocked persistently at his front door. He had pulled out an old magazine of knitting patterns with shaking hands, knitting to keep himself from nodding off in case Prentiss or her worms managed to get through the door while his eyes were closed, and had managed a decent hat before finally succumbing to his exhaustion and passing out for almost twelve hours.

In the years that followed, Martin spent a lot of time knitting. It was soothing to let his hands work, to let his mind slow down and drift from the terrifying things happening in the archives. He got quite good at it, too, or at least he thought so; by the time Jon left to stop the Unknowing, he was knitting his own sweaters and hats, partially as a way to save money but mostly so that he wasn’t constantly thinking about the thousand horrible ways he could die at any moment. He was wearing his favorite sweater when he locked himself in Jon’s office and began setting fire to statements – blue, with a green and white stripe across his chest, and one of his warmest. As Elias shouted through the door, he ran a finger along a line of smooth wool at his sleeve, going over it again and again and using it to time his breaths even as they shook. He was surprised at his own bravery, that day, and proud, and maybe even a bit hopeful that they could all get out of this somehow, that they could find a way to escape and be happy once they were out from under Elias’s thumb.

Martin didn’t knit anything for a year after that.  


* * *

The day after the apocalypse, Martin started knitting a sweater for Jon.

It was just something to do, really. Jon had been sleeping since Martin picked him up off the floor and carried him to the bed they’d shared for three weeks. They had been the happiest weeks of Martin’s life, he’d thought, covering them both with blankets and folding himself around Jon, trying to protect him from a world that had been so utterly destroyed.

When he was sure Jon had finally fallen asleep, Martin had set to work packing their things. He hadn’t been able to get any signal to contact Basira, so he’d settled back down on the bed next to Jon and attempted to get some sleep as well. He’d tossed and turned for about twenty minutes before giving it up as a bad job and reaching into his bag for a book. His hand had met cool metal instead.

He had almost left his knitting bag behind in the mad rush to pack a few essentials from his apartment before he and Jon had fled to the safe house. It had only been a momentary impulse that had sent him back to his closet to retrieve it and shove it haphazardly into his duffel. He was grateful for that decision now, watching Jon sleep fitfully beside him and trying desperately to ignore the horrible sounds coming from outside.

Jon had been wearing Martin’s sweaters ever since they’d arrived at the safe house. Even after they’d made it out to the village to get Jon some real clothes, he’d refused to stop stealing Martin’s clothes. Martin loved seeing Jon in one of his sweaters, the sleeves stretching past his hands, the bottom drifting around his mid-thigh, but he was knitting something a bit closer to Jon’s actual size – still a bit large, probably, but manageable. He had picked a lovely dark green that had been buried near the bottom of his bag, meant to bring out Jon’s lovely brown skin and eyes, and it was by far the softest he had. It would be warm, too, for the cold Scottish winter that was quickly approaching – although, Martin realized, he wasn’t sure if the weather would be affected by the literal apocalypse that was raging outside – and safe to wash, so that Jon wouldn’t have to worry about keeping it clean, which was probably best, considering the circumstances. It would take months, if Martin was quick about it, or years, if he was cautious, if he didn’t move too fast, if he treated each loop and purl like a fragile thing, like something precious, something rare.

Beside him, Jon began to stir.

* * *

After their fourth hour on the road, they stopped to stretch and to let Martin take a break from driving. Martin climbed up onto the hood of the car and patted the space beside him, and Jon leapt up and slid comfortably next to Martin, sliding a hand around his waist as Martin pulled his knitting needles and yarn back out of his bag.

“That’s a nice color,” Jon remarked, resting his head on Martin’s shoulder. Martin hummed in reply, concentrating on pulling the wool into a neat row of loops before pushing the needle through. Jon stroked at his waist thoughtfully as Martin knitted, pressing an occasional kiss to Martin’s shoulder, his cheek, his forehead.

When they finally climbed back into the car, Jon pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of Martin’s mouth, a bit of chapped skin catching against Martin’s cheek. “Thank you,” he muttered, reaching up to tug on one of Martin’s curls.

Martin smiled and kissed the top of Jon’s head. “Of course,” he said, before sitting in the passenger’s seat and resuming his knitting.

* * *

“Jon!”

Jon’s head whipped around to face the soldier who had quietly sneaked up behind him, a large branch raised like a club and seconds from Jon’s head. He dropped to the ground as Martin scooped up a rock from the ground and chucked it at the soldier’s head. It hit him in the eye, causing the man to stagger back, one hand held up to his face in surprise and pain.

Jon rolled to the side and pulled from his belt a large kitchen knife, sharpened and shining. Within moments he was on his feet, the knife held out in front of him. Martin ran toward him, unarmed, but he was too slow – the man was already lunging at Jon, swinging at him wildly with the branch, which connected with Jon’s abdomen and sent him hurtling back through the air. The knife, knocked out of Jon’s grasp, fell to the ground about ten feet away from Martin. Martin, desperate, dove for it, but he was not alone, and instead of hitting the dirt, he landed on top of the soldier, whose hand had already closed around the handle of the knife.

Martin frantically grabbed for the man’s wrist, straining to keep the knife as far from him as possible. He did his best to pin the soldier to the ground, but somehow the man had managed to flip himself onto his back. He grasped at Martin’s face, and Martin had to let go of the man’s wrist with one hand to stop him from reaching for Martin’s throat. Behind him, Martin heard Jon’s low groan of pain, along with a gasp that sounded like an attempt to yell Martin’s name. He gritted his teeth and pushed as hard as he could against the soldier’s arm even as he brought the knife closer and closer to Martin’s face. This close, Martin could see the unnatural shine of anger in the man’s eyes – the Slaughter, probably, Martin thought with a twinge of pity, or maybe the Hunt. He wondered if the man had once had a family. If he had once had people to stop him.

“Martin!”

The man took a swipe at his face. Martin, though trembling with exhaustion, managed to keep the knife away from his eyes, though he felt the sting of the blade on his forehead. He pressed the man’s arm as close to the ground as he could, but his hands were shaking, and leaning forward to push the man’s arm down had unbalanced him a bit, leaving him reeling. In an instant, the man had flipped their positions and pinned Martin to the ground. In another, his hand was coming down, the knife rushing towards Martin’s throat. Blood rushed in his ears.

“Marcus Jennings!” Jon yelled, the crackle of static sneaking into the back of his throat, and the man froze, his knife inches from Martin’s neck. Martin let out a small, pained sound and looked to his left, where Jon was staring at the two of them, doubled over in pain and looking more frightened than Martin had ever seen him.

“Marcus Jennings,” Jon said again, taking a slow step forward. “ _Tell me what happened._ ”

The man shook, and Jon took another careful step forward. “ _When did you first encounter the Slaughter?_ ”

The man shuddered, and then the story poured from his lips – his father’s violence, his tour in Afghanistan, his anger towards his wife, her face when she finally walked out. Once he was caught up in it, Martin wriggled his way out from underneath him, then pried the knife out of his fingers. He pulled his backpack off and dug his way through it, pushing past Jon’s sweater to another skein of yarn, and wound it around the man’s wrists, tying him as tightly as he could. He pulled a shirt out of his bag and tied it around his eyes, then pushed the man gently to the ground. The man kept talking even as Martin made his way over to Jon, who was glaring hungrily at him, his eyes shining as brightly as the man’s had.

As his story wound down, Martin began to pull Jon gently back towards the road. Jon stared at the man the whole way, even as the shine faded from his eyes and he began to look sated and content in the way he only ever did after taking a statement. It was only when they reached the road that Jon finally glanced at Martin, his brow furrowing like he had only just realized Martin was beside him.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, reaching up to wipe a drop of blood that was rolling down Martin’s nose.

“I’m fine,” Martin said, though he was still dizzy and sick from the encounter. “We can patch it up in a minute.”

“Here,” said Jon, pulling Martin toward a small copse of trees on the other side of the road. Martin followed silently and let Jon tug him gently to the ground once they were sufficiently hidden from view. He pulled Martin’s backpack off and began to root around inside of it for the first aid kit, pulling out the tangle of yarn and knitting needles and setting them gently in Martin’s lap.

When he had found the first aid kit, he opened it and set to work soaking a thin cloth in water, which he used to wipe the dirt and blood from Martin’s forehead. He did the same with a bit of rubbing alcohol, which left Martin hissing with the sting.

“Sorry,” Jon muttered. His hands were shaking, so Martin covered them with his own.

“Not your fault,” he said, squeezing gently. Jon took a shaky breath, closed his eyes, and nodded. Then he got back to work, cleaning the cut and covering it in gauze and bandages.

“I wish I could stitch it up for you,” Jon said. “Or that I could take you to an A&E.”

“It’s fine, Jon,” Martin said, fumbling with the yarn in his lap.

“It’s not,” Jon replied. “It’s not fine. You’ll need to take it easy for a couple of days. We’ll camp out here for a while.”

“I’m honestly all right, Jon.”

“Shh,” Jon said, pressing a gentle kiss to Martin’s forehead. He gave him a soft smile. “Let me take care of you. Please.”

Martin took a deep breath, then smiled and pressed a kiss to the corner of Jon’s mouth. “Yeah,” he said, and kissed him again. “All right.”

* * *

One night, as they sat around a campfire, Jon reached out to stroke the pattern that was slowly forming out of yarn in Martin’s lap.

“It’s soft,” he muttered, his fingers running across the neat rows of raised lines in that beautiful green wool.

“I know,” said Martin. “I picked it out for you.”

Jon hummed, turning to kiss Martin on the shoulder. “Thank you,” he said.

“Of course,” Martin replied, grinning. “Only the best for you, dear.”

He expected Jon to laugh, or perhaps to come up with some other pet name for him. What he didn’t expect was for Jon to sit up suddenly, as though electrified, and stare directly into his eyes with the same intent he usually saved for particularly interesting books or puzzles he couldn’t quite solve.

“Jon?” Martin asked, his hands faltering.

“I love you,” Jon breathed.

Martin’s heart stuttered in his chest. His face warmed as blood rose to his cheeks, even as the rest of him suddenly felt completely numb. It was as though every thread that tied him to Jon had suddenly been pulled taut, painful and grounding, tugging him _home, home, home._

“I love you, too,” he said, trying not to let his voice shake.

When Jon kissed him, it felt like going home again.

* * *

Once they had reached the safety of the next town, Martin settled next to Jon on the couch of an old grimy apartment and set to knitting once more. Beside him, Jon opened one of the books that he’d found on a dusty old bookshelf across the hall – some old gothic novel, Martin thought, based on the dark figures on the cover. Jon leaned his head on Martin’s shoulder and was entirely absorbed within minutes.

While he read, Martin began to attach the first sleeve to the finally completed torso of the sweater. It was his favorite part of knitting – that moment when a pile of yarn became something useful, something cozy, fully-formed by his own hands. He worked methodically, sewing the pieces together as Jon snuggled closer and closer to him.

When he had finished with the first sleeve, he moved onto the second. Jon was beginning to snore somewhat, so Martin wrapped an arm around him before continuing, letting Jon’s head fall onto his chest. He liked holding Jon like this – liked to feel like he could protect him from the world outside, even after everything that had happened to the two of them. His heart ached to think of Jon fighting through the apocalypse alone, to think of the time when Martin had left him alone, back at the Archives, and all for nothing…

No. That wasn’t productive. Martin shook himself from his train of thought and kept sewing, tried to focus on the movement of his hands, on the feeling of yarn.

It wasn’t enough, though. These moments, when they were able to slow down and stop worrying about surviving the next challenge, the next fight, the next meal, that Martin found himself slipping back into guilt and fear and loneliness. The last was especially hard to fight, even though Martin knew, in the part of himself that could be rational about these things, that it was largely a remnant of his experience with Peter. Even knowing that, though, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of that old fear that he would lose Jon somehow, whether to the Eye or to a monster or just by being, in his own way, not good enough to keep Jon there.

His hands were beginning to shake enough that he could no longer push the needle through where it needed to go, and that old pit of cold numbness had settled in his stomach. He could almost feel the color leeching out of him, abandoning him, _like Jon will, like everyone will…_

And then Jon stirred, pressing closer to him, and Martin gasped at the sudden warmth. Jon let out a small groan, then blinked blearily and looked up at Martin. Martin realized there were tears spilling down his cheeks as Jon’s brow furrowed. He reached a hand up and brushed the tears from Martin’s chin, sitting up and wrapping an arm around Martin’s shoulders.

“Hey,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to Martin’s cheek, and then another, and another, and Martin took a shuddering breath, feeling the warmth rushing back into him.

“Sorry,” Martin breathed.

Jon pressed another kiss to his cheek, brushing away the tears on his other cheek with his scarred hand. “Love you,” Jon muttered. “Love you, Martin. Martin. My Martin.”

“Oh,” Martin said, closing his eyes and letting himself be held in Jon’s caring arms, protected and beloved. “Don’t leave,” he whispered.

“Never,” Jon said, and they stayed like that until the light faded.

* * *

When they finally reached the Magnus Institute, Jon wore the sweater.

“It’s for protection,” he said, his hand wrapped tightly around Martin’s. “And luck.”

Martin nodded, then pushed open the door to Elias’s – _Jonah’s_ – office.

“Hello,” said the man behind the desk, his eyes cold and calculating.

“Hello,” said Martin, his voice cheery and casual as ever. “We’re here to save the world.”

And they did.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from John Keats's "Bright star, would I were as stedfast as thou art"
> 
> "Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—  
> Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night  
> And watching, with eternal lids apart,  
> Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,  
> The moving waters at their priestlike task  
> Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,  
> Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask  
> Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—  
> No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,  
> Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,  
> To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,  
> Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,  
> Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,  
> And so live ever—or else swoon to death."


End file.
